25SUMMER PASSED, AUTUMN CAME. The gloom at High Meadow was palpable. On the morning of Saturday, 30 October 1976, in the tractor garage, Bobby ordered Tony to pack.
“f**k it, Man,” Tony said. “Don’t mean nothin. Give me a couple a days.”
“No. That’s not what I mean.” Bobby’s head ached. As things had deteriorated, disillusionment had turned into disappointment with himself. He was about as communicative as the cold forge.
“f**k, Man,” Tony grumbled. “It’s goina take a few days. I got things here.”
“Pack a ruck,” Wapinski said. “Field pack. Knapsack. Whatever you fuckin Marines called em. There’s one in the shop. We’re movin out in an hour.”
Bobby scowled, left, returned. “There’s rations there too. Three-day resupply.”
The day was crisp, clear. They barely spoke. It was a patrol of t
